


Sickness

by RubyBelle



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Breathplay, Consensual Non-Consent, Dubious Consent, Face Punching, Heavy BDSM, M/M, No Lube, Punching, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Safewords, Sexual Violence, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-30 07:19:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8523724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyBelle/pseuds/RubyBelle
Summary: All Seth Rollins wants out of his professional wrestling career is to find someone much stronger than him, rough enough to entirely destroy him. He finds that in Brock Lesnar.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RubyBelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyBelle/gifts).



> this doesn't fit in canon again w/e. the usual setup, yknow, raw 6/15/15 when brockykins comes back.

When Brock's music hit, Seth can't believe it, Hunter, himself. The panic in his heart is real, skin-prickling, all-consuming fear. He looks away, backs off, walks (he hopes it was a walk, not an obvious sprint) backstage, and goes straight to the bathroom to jerk off.

He knows the stage hands, and Hunter and Stephanie probably think he's hiding in a changing room, maybe crying, rueing the world. Or maybe he's locked himself away in the bathroom to wash his face and try to convince himself that he was a big man, big enough to look Brock Lesnar in the eye.

But, no. With his hair stuck to his face, his shirt rolled up to expose his stomach, and his pants down to his knees, Seth frantically gets off, spitting in his hand and using the other to muffle any squeaks or moans. Brock is too powerful, too large, dominating, terrifying. How is he human? How had Seth gotten into the ring with him and somehow left with his limbs attached? Every thought quickens his heartbeat and makes his dick throb.

His orgasm isn't his best, but good for a quick one in a stadium bathroom. Suddenly exhausted, Seth leans his head back and stares at the fluorescent lights above him, taking in deep breaths, eyes half lidded.

Seth had never really planned to continue being a wrestler as an adult. He loved it as a child, he and his friends would wrestle for hours, trying to perfect their techniques. When he was younger he was adamant  — he'll be a wrestler, even if it kills him. It got close to death sometimes, the poorly taken back bumps and badly landed moonsaults added up. Some days, he couldn't walk because of the pain. He decided, wrestling is fun, but to do it as a career is probably far too dangerous.

Like an addiction, though, he kept on anyway, the love for it was too strong, and another reason he wasn’t really able to explain until he found a guide of BDSM in the back of a secondhand bookstore. Being honest, compared to otherwise, Seth cums harder after a match, and the rougher the match, the more pleasure courses through his body until he isn't sure if he can even recognise pain anymore. If there are bruises, he'll press into them, stitches, he'll lamely tug at them, he'll push deeper and deeper until there’s blood left on his mattress. Seth kept telling himself, one more storyline and I'm done, two more shows and I'm done, three more finishers and I'm done…

When he signed with Ring of Honor, they asked him how he felt about hardcore matches. Seth thought he had been in one before, but never something like that, piercing a man's skin and hanging him from the ceiling on meat hooks. It was gruesome, like an 80's horror movie, Seth thought he felt his knees turn to jelly. That night, his dick wouldn't go down until he begged Jimmy to fuck him, thinking of himself in that position, beaten and helpless, pouring blood on the canvas, a spectacle.

And it continued, with broken noses, bleeding foreheads, glass and wood, and a victor left standing. Seth knew he was getting obsessed, he wanted to fight and  _ win _ , raise to the top so the only men who could beat him would be the strongest, meanest, roughest fuckers in the scene. People would get close, but once in bed they all turned soft, refusing to treat him as horribly as they had in the ring. Seth would beg, occasionally try to instigate them into fighting back, but everyone would leave him awkwardly, a promise to text but no follow ups. He stopped trying after he got into FCW, serious now, aiming for the top position of all, the WWE title.

This is a high, Seth chasing after a dream of finding someone who can cause him  _ real _ pain, the kind that curls toes and causes tears. The longer-term partners he had, Dean, Roman, Marek, he would divulge his secrets to them, and they tried to accommodate him, but to the same failings as before. Seth doesn't particularly care about verbal humiliation, it’s fine but isn't what will get him off, he just wants to hear his own bones break and taste his own blood.

Marek was far too kind, he would use a flogger on Seth, but that was simply external, and Seth had to remind himself of the metallic taste of a nosebleed to get hard. Roman was willing to be a bit tougher, but still well within the bounds of standard BDSM. Dean never really understood Seth, but he'd smack him around for a couple of minutes if asked very kindly. None of them had genuine power behind them, a vitriol that could only cause harm.

Seth had started to give up hope, maybe wrestling wasn't the right line of work, maybe all those years toiling and struggling and aching were for naught. He only kept wrestling because of the lasting mood he'd fall into, but if that was gone, maybe he would've been better off being some sort of personal trainer. That was until Brock came in.

Brock is a monster, a beast, some sort of hell creature who spawned on Earth and had the sole goal of destroying anyone in his way to an end no one knew. He makes grown men backstage lower their voices and raise their guard, hell, he makes children cry. Seth had seen him before he'd left for MMA, but that was so distant, faraway, maybe worth a daydream but not a goal. While Seth was still in NXT, planning his debut onto the main roster, he watched Brock break Hunter's arm with ease, and realised he had fallen in love.

This is going to be their first true match, just them in the ring, Brock staring him down and Seth desperately trying to keep himself out of subspace. When Brock's music played earlier, Seth was scared, but that fear was a mixture of undiluted anticipation, like a kid going to Disneyworld, a lifelong dream come true, and him being scared of his own self, of how rapidly his heart jumped into his throat and his dick swelled.

His erection wasn't a problem, he'd gotten into wearing cups in the ring, a suggestion offered to him by Hunter, all those years ago in NXT. He'd thought Hunter had forgotten all about it until the nights Seth spent in his room, Hunter convincing him how little Shield could do for him. But Hunter was never around, Seth could never rely on him, and he didn't like to encourage Seth, anyway.

Seth wasn't able to look Brock in the face, worried of what would happen. What if Brock took it as a challenge? Would he wrap his huge hands around Seth's neck, fling him like a toy across the ring? Or maybe through a table? Would he grab him by his hair and display his beaten body to the crowd, like a hunted prey, as a prize?

Seth snaps back to reality when he realises he's already hard again.  _ What a mess _ , he thinks, cleaning the cum off his hands with thin toilet paper, determinedly ignoring his dick.

While washing off the bits of tissue paper stuck to his hands, Seth stares at his own reflection in the mirror, trying to take stock of what was happening to him. His face is flushed, eyes already dialated and heavy-lidded, breathing slowed down to something inappropriate for his situation. There's a behemoth on the loose somewhere in the building, with a vendetta and the means to fix problems. Seth knows he should be scared, worried, or maybe determined to win, training nonstop for the match. 

His hands are shaking on the counter. Seth pounds his chest a few times, slapping his cheeks, takes deep breaths, trying to get himself back to a reasonable, public appearance. He'll have to wait to manage his issues.

Hunter is waiting in the locker room, staring at his phone and shaking a knee while seated on the small benches. Seth opens the door and is greeted with an angry face and angrier tone.

"Where the fuck did you go?" Hunter demands, dropping his phone and stepping too close to Seth. "Did you even realize how many times I called for you?"

Seth opens his mouth, closes it to swallow, and tries again. "I was… Washing my face."

"For  _ thirty fucking minutes _ ?" Hunter grabs Seth's left shoulder, pressing down hard into joint. Seth winces, scared of his temper, not wanting  _ this _ kind of pain. Hunter's strong, his hands are powerful, and the grip feels like hot metal piercing his skin. "I have a goddamn flight to catch, Seth, tell me what you were doing. Now."

"I was in the bathroom," he manages to get out, weakly jerking his shoulder away from Hunter's grasp. 

Hunter finally lets go of him, clearly disgusted, shaking the hand that had been on him. "Jesus Christ. I'll deal with you later, Seth. No one has any time for your fucking  _ sickness _ ," he spits, the words dousing Seth in cold water, threatening to bring tears to his eyes. "You really wanna get beat so bad? Try me again, I'll make sure you retire."

In a huff, Hunter grabs his jacket and phone off the bench and pushes Seth out of the way, heading to the door. "I'm going to the airport now. Don't fucking do anything, Seth, just spend the night in the hotel and we'll call for you in the morning."

He doesn't spare another look at his protégé before he slams the door closed behind him, leaving Seth alone in the room, hugging himself.

The walk to the hotel is longer than Seth had wanted. He had thought about calling a taxi, but figured that sneaking out the back and walking the five miles would probably be good for his mind. The night air is warm with a cool mid-summer breeze, but two miles in and Seth's shoulder is starting to  _ really  _ hurt. He has to stop to sit on the curb, trying to catch his breath that he hadn't noticed went short.

It isn't like he  _ doesn't _ know that something was wrong with him. Even in BDSM porn or manuals, it’s all about not breaking skin, or not causing lasting damage. Something must be really,  _ really _ wrong with him, Seth thinks, and even worse that he never knows how to control it. Hunter's tired of him, exasperated whenever Seth would nervously ask for help, and Stephanie wants nothing to do with him. He has no one else around him by this point, no one to help or talk to. Just his head in his hands and the image of Brock's heavy gaze in his mind.

"This sucks," Seth mumbles into his palm, watching cars on the distant freeway.

A half hour passes while Seth stays seated, mindlessly watching small dots of light go back and forth. When his watch beeps midnight, he dusts himself off, grabs his bag, and continues his slow pace to the hotel.

In the lobby of the hotel, the receptionist greets him wearily, probably the end or start of a shift. Hunter had gotten him this room, it was definitely expensive, just judging by the amount of objects painted gold in the entryway. He'll never be able to afford anything like it. He'd just end up soiling it, anyway. 

The last time Seth had bled in a hotel room, Hunter had nearly given up on him, threatened to take away the championship, threatened to beat him with his belt buckle. Seth has to hazard a guess that he was the one who Hunter would take his anger out on because he was the same one who caused so much of it. The brutality is fine, the fire in his eyes and power behind his fists are good, but the drop from being legitimately scolded by the one person who took care of you was enough to make even the highest high turn into a gross, cold feeling in the pit of his stomach.

He checks in, tiredly handing over his ID and commiserating with the yawns of the receptionist.

"Here you go," the person says, handing a key card inside a pamphlet to Seth. "Room 1605."

Seth can't get the word 'thanks' out before another man comes up behind him and claps a hand on his bad shoulder.

_ Hunter's supposed to be at the airport right now, was there something else I did wrong? _ Seth grimaces, whipping around nervously. "Who —?"

Behind him is none other than the advocate, Paul Heyman, sure and short, a strange smile on his face, as if he's trying to figure Seth out. "Funny I see you here, Mr. Seth Rollins!" he starts, keeping his grip on Seth's bad shoulder. "What strange twists of fate!"

Seth can't understand how he can still speak so loud, as if he's still on a mic, speaking to a crowd. "You weren't," Seth mumbles, trying to connect wires in his head. "At the show, were you?"

"Backstage," Heyman replies, letting go of Seth's shoulder. Seth gives it an experimental roll, wincing when he feels the stab of pain right under the connection of his collarbone. "Brock wanted to confront you solo, mano y mano."

The wires finally connect, his brain sparking back to life, and Seth remembers what the implication of Paul Heyman in this lobby is. 

Heyman is always near Brock. 

This is a hotel. 

Brock is somewhere in this goddamn hotel.

Seth stumbles away, his back bumping into the high check-in desk, his heart loud in his throat. Heyman gives Seth a surprised look, but they both know there's something deeper there, sinister and ill-intentioned. He was expecting this, wasn't he? Will there be a nighttime beatdown to make sure Seth had to give up the belt? Will Brock visit him?

Seth squeezes his thighs together as best as he can without giving anything away. 

Heyman chuckles. "Hope you have a good night, Mr. Rollins," he says, already beginning his walk away. "I have to be on a plane in 20 minutes."

When Heyman stops at the door, clearly feigning a thought, Seth grabs his key to his room, and shuffles away from the curious onlooker. "What a shame," Heyman sings out, stopping Seth in his tracks. "Brock wanted peace and quiet alone tonight, so I'll have to fly back here again tomorrow."

Seth squeezes the paper in his hand until he feels the key card's edge stab him in the palm. 

"Goodbye, Mr. Rollins," Heyman laughs, and with the last word, he leaves the hotel.

Seth books it to the elevator, planning to walk fast enough that no one would notice the strain in his pants, anxious to find a safe bathroom. Thoughts whiz through his mind on the ride up — should he ask the receptionist what room number he was in? He can't ask Hunter, that'd be risking too much, and he might not even know. What can he do? Did Heyman hear Seth's room number? Did he relay a message to Brock? Will Brock be waiting for him?

His pulse is going too fast, he feels light-headed. Brock is cold, unfeeling, nothing he does is backed by hatred, just a want to cause pain. Seth wants to feel that, to be hurt so badly he doesn't even need to touch his cock. Sheer cruelty, pure destruction, until Seth can't even think anymore. He doesn't want Hunter's piercing words, he doesn't want Marek or Roman's kind touches, he doesn't want Dean's half-hearted sloppy ways, he wants brutality from a monstrosity who'll smile as he breaks Seth's jaw.

When Seth finally stumbles into his room, it's all he can do to throw his suitcase in the closet and fall on the bed. His dick's throbbing, pulling the top of his jeans taunt, aching for a touch of relief. Seth tries to tell himself that he should stop, not touch himself, not get off to the imaginary ideal of Brock fucking Seth, his body contorted into whatever painful position Brock got the most off on. Hunter'll find out, he'll get mad, he'll leave him, he  _ has _ to stop, before he does something dangerous.

Seth bites into his tongue.

The sudden pooling of thick coppery liquid in his mouth is a shock to his body, diverting all attention to the burning in his mouth. Seth runs to the bathroom to spit out into the sink, the sight of natural red against porcelain white filling up his mind. He keeps his tongue out for a few minutes, waiting for the stream to die down before he grabs a towel and presses it up against the wound. 

_ Good thing I'm a masochist _ , Seth thinks darkly, chuckling a little.  _ It forces you to learn first aid real quick _ .

When the blood finally stops, Seth leaves the room with the ice bucket, to get something cold to lessen the inevitable swelling. His dick has finally settled down, now that it isn't getting the attention it demanded. He'll just ice his tongue for a little and go to bed, Hunter is probably going to get him early and he doesn't want to disappoint anyone anymore.

A short trip to the ice machine reveals that not only did his floor not have one, but the closest one was two floors up. A piece of paper taped to the markedly empty wall next to a vending machine alerts Seth that he should head up to the 18th floor should he want ice, and that the management is oh, so very sorry. Seth rolls his eyes and shuffles over to the stairwell.

He just wants to get out and get back in quick, he's still holding a towel to his bleeding tongue. Seth's tired, emotionally drained, and the 18th floor seems so far away.

When he gets to the landing, he makes his way to the ice machine, hoping, finally, that something could go right. He'll just fill his bucket and go back down. He doesn't want to do anything, doesn't want to answer questions or even make eye contact. He has a schedule to keep.

At the ice machine, his schedule's broken.

There's a man, no, a  _ leviathan _ , a goddamn symbol of death staring back at Seth. Lopsided skull tattoo on pink skin, thick muscles moving imperceptibly as he fills a glass in his hand.

Brock Lesnar.

He's shirtless and barefoot, wearing only loose dark sweatpants, his massive back turned to Seth. At the sound of Seth sucking in his breath, Brock turns, confused and annoyed, revealing a heavy cup of amber liquid in his hand. Seth can tell he's drunk, but not so much that it stops Brock from giving him a morbid grin, setting the ice scoop down.

"Well, would'ya look at that," he says, and the towel in Seth's mouth is the only thing stopping him from biting down. "Big man's here, huh?"

Seth looks away frantically, as if there's someone who can help him. He was right, Paul Heyman in this hotel meant that Brock's here, but Brock doesn't seem like he knew Seth was here. Brock barely looks sober, his cup had melted ice, he was  _ refilling _ it, and if sober Brock's a nightmare, how much punishment could drunk Brock inflict? 

Seth stumbles back, terrified of Brock noticing his hard on.

"What's wrong with you," Brock chuckles, stepping closer, and Seth can smell the alcohol on his breath. "Cat actually got your tongue? Why're you bleedin' everywhere?"

Trembling, Seth spits out the towel, and stammers, "I had an accident."

"You look like you're about to have another one," Brock laughs, the hand holding his alcohol pointing at Seth's crossed legs, sending a strong wave of heat over him. "You  _ that _ scared of me, Rollins?"

While  _ scared _ wasn't exactly the right word, Seth doesn't dare correct him, or give any sort of verbal response. His mouth only tastes faintly of blood by this point, residual, so Seth uses the stained towel to cover his shame, hoping Brock won't see how much his hand was shaking.

But hoping for Brock to not notice a weakness is a stupid idea, and Brock steps even closer, forcing Seth's back against the wall. "You look like," he grins, voice low and threatening. "You got somethin' you wanna say."

"No," Seth gasps, feeling the sweat run down his back. 

There's a twitch in Brock's face, and everything seems to go dark in Seth's peripheral. He leans his head back, staring down at Seth, but still not giving him any room. 

There's a deafening bang right next to Seth's ear, and Brock's fist hasn't even dented the drywall. Hands shaking, Seth drops the towel, lowering his gaze to Brock's bare chest, gulping his spit down painfully.

Brock steps back and laughs again, the sound sending chills down Seth's back. He clamors forward, desperately trying to grab the towel and run back to stairwell, escape to some semblance of safety, but Brock's quicker than he.

A giant hand grabs the back of Seth's collar, pulling him upright, back against the wall again. There's more laughter, and Seth squeezes his eyes together, his body cold with shame. Maybe this'll just be it, maybe Brock won't push, maybe Brock hasn't even noticed. His laughter could just be from the joy a predator gets from playing with its prey, watching it squirm and struggle under its grasp.

"You a fag?" Brock asks, cold laughter hurting Seth as if it were a physical blow. "What, you hard 'cuz I scare you?"

"I'm sorry," Seth pleads, anxiety like a knife in his chest. "I — I'll leave you alone, please, I'm sorry."

This isn't even a shock to Seth, he had always known Brock would've been disgusted at his proclivities. It's probably human nature to find Seth disgusting, after all, a grown man who can only happily get off if someone who probably hated him beat him mercilessly. Seth wants to crawl away and die, his eyes are already starting to tear up. He doesn't want this.

"No way, you kiddin' me?" Brock says, and Seth's heart gets caught in his throat. "I'm too drunk to ignore something this fun."

Seth doesn't know if he's allowed to look up at Brock, but he does anyway, completely lost. Is Brock mad? He doesn't sound mad, he doesn't look mad, but there's no way he  _ wouldn't _ be, right? What on earth is happening? Brock's baring his teeth in something that only barely resembles a grin, his face a bright pink, the same as it is in-ring. 

Seth resigns himself to not being able to walk the next day.

Using his grip on Seth's collar, Brock flings the champion in front of him, kicking the stained towel on the floor away. Seth stumbles, almost falling over, using the wall to stabilize himself. "Room 1820," he says, pausing to take a sip from his glass. "Get goin'."

Seth looks down the hall and back, confused. Brock meets his gaze, only annoyed. "Get," he repeats, taking a single step towards Seth. "Going."

No more arguments, Seth quickly scuttles down the hall, feeling his heart's pulse throughout his entire body, bending his fingers, stopping his breath. Brock's room, Brock's  _ room _ ,  _ Brock's room _ . It's already unlocked, a stopper in place, and Seth pauses, his hand on the handle. Brock follows him slowly, a casual pace, his eyes tracking Seth's every motion.

The room's larger than Seth's of course, a single king, a desk and nightstand, soft carpeting, luxurious. Brock locks the door behind the two of them, the heavy click resonating in Seth's ears as he carefully treads his way to the center of the room, pushed on by Brock's knuckles pressed into the center of his back.

Brock laughs, the sound stiffening Seth's spine. He isn't sure why, but being in Brock's field of view, knowing that he's even in Brock's  _ consciousness _ makes him feel like he should be at his best, responsible and attentive. Brock drinks the rest of his whiskey in one go, resting it on the desk across the room, still chuckling to himself.

"I really  _ am _ drunk," he says, and the sound of his voice after so long makes Seth get goosebumps. "I gotta be, to do somethin' like this."

Brock looks at Seth, who feels his face turn red. "If I'm gonna do this, though," he starts, his gaze hazy, focused towards Seth but not finding a specific thing to look at. "I'm gonna do it right. You got words, Rollins?"

_ Words _ , Seth thinks,  _ does he mean safewords? _ Seth doesn't know exactly how to respond, theoretically he does, he knows the etiquette and Roman had made them use some, but Seth can't remember when he last used them, doesn't remember when anyone asked him. 

While he's blundering in his mind, Brock steps closer, intimidating, vast, the whiskey glass still in his hand. "I fuckin' spoke, you gonna answer me?" he says, and the coldness in his voice isn't new, Seth's heard this before, it feels like his spine might melt. Brock's right in his face when he continues speaking, "I asked for your damn words."

"Red," Seth sputters out, struggling to remember how to speak with Brock so near. "Yellow, green is fine." 

Seth's obedience grants him a smile from Brock, but there's no kindness. " 'N two taps, got it?"

Two taps, that's nonverbal, is Brock going to stop his speech? Seth’s head is spinning, he bites his lower lip and nods his head, never before has he had a conversation this simple made this difficult by the unbearable ache in his pants.

Brock's massive hand grabbing and twisting his hair is sudden, a yelp of surprise comes straight from Seth's lungs as his knees bend and his body twists, instinctively trying to get away from the sharpness. "I ain't gonna say it again, you gonna answer me?" Brock shouts, hot in Seth's ear, the glass lying on the floor. "Or do I have to fuckin' hit you?"

He squeezes his eyes when he answers, embarrassed, but so desperate that he doesn't entirely know how to handle himself. "Yes, sir, please, sir," Seth begs, willing to get on his knees and offer everything if Brock so much as thinks it.

" _ Man _ , you're sick," Brock laughs again, and he punches Seth in the stomach.

The sudden blow immediately casts away the excess thoughts from his mind, all that runs through is pain, pressure, and a loud single tone. His head still hurts, his stomach's churning, it's like Brock had punched straight through him, and Seth collapses on the bed behind him, happier than he thought possible. Tears are streaming down his face, he coughs, his intestines recoiling from the punch, and feels the bile rising fast in his throat. Seth doesn't  _ want _ to throw up, doesn't want to reject this gift, but his saliva is like acid when he spits it out on the ground, curling on his side, his head dangling off the other side of the mattress.

When the tone in his head mellows a bit, he can hear Brock still laughing. Huge hands grab his ankles, dragging him back to the edge until he's on his back, legs spread wide, butted up against Brock's thighs. Brock leans over, Seth can feel his solid cock rub up against his own, shielded by thick cloth, and Brock presses a forearm across Seth's throat, an executioner's axe.

"Look, I'm gonna fuck you, n' I don't want you strugglin' against me," Brock says, setting the rules of the night. Seth can only gasp in air, eyes focused on his lips. "If you gotta, you can go limp, but if you fight me, I'll knock your teeth out."

There's too much for him to process, Seth doesn't want to think anymore, doesn't want to ruin this. Brock's arm raises a little and he gasps, "Yes, sir."

Brock leans back, giving Seth room to exist, but the space is short-lived. Brock reaches over to where he had dropped the glass and tests the weight in his hand, eyeing Seth as if he were a meal. In a single fluid motion, he cracks the glass against Seth's head, it shattering in Brock's hand as Seth's vision blinks into white.

It feels like his head is on fire, like the impact had left a dent in his skull, maybe his brain is exposed, all the blood pulsing through the veins just under his skin. Seth blinks over and over, trying to get his vision back, as if his eyes were uncoordinated, unsynchronized. He can still hear Brock's laughter.

He hears him say something once, twice, maybe a third time before Brock loses his patience and leans in close. "Gimme a word, Rollins," he growls.

"Green," is the response Seth hears himself say, and Brock smiles, baring all of his teeth.

Seth has practically forgotten about his dick until Brock rips his shirt off, the seams coming apart with no resistance. Brock undoes his jeans easily, wrenching them down until Seth is entirely bare, entirely vulnerable, a shiver running down his back. His cock springs up, hitting him in the stomach, and Brock chuckles, his pitch strangely high.

"Was gonna just fuck your mouth," Brock says, spitting on his hand, pulling his cock out of his sweatpants, and giving it a couple of quick pumps. Seth's vision is sadly too blurry to get a good look at it. "But I dunno if you'll be able t'keep it open real well when I'm doin' what I wanna do to ya."

Seth starts blinking faster, his heart high in his throat, and he realised there's something getting in the way. He gets a clumsy hand to touch where the glass had hit him, and when he pulls back, his fingers are bright red and slick with blood. Seth laughs a little, feeling a high, like he isn't totally grounded to the bed, like none of this is really happening.

A lunchbox sized fist comes down on Seth's face, opposite the blood, and Brock presses in fast.

Seth feels like he's suffocating, his head cracked wide open in two spots, his eyes are unable to focus properly, and his entire body shuddering with pain. His ass stings, burns, stretched too wide too fast, like he's being impaled. He can't close his mouth, can't gasp in enough air. Sweat, drool, and tears mix with the blood until Seth can only think of being held underwater.

"You like that?" Brock breaths, voice white hot and strangely lilted. "Y'look like you're about ready t'blow."

All Seth gets out is an inarticulate gurgle.

His rudeness is met with another blow, an open handed slap across his face, knocking Seth's head from one side to the other. Brock begins to rock, rough friction spearing Seth up through his guts. Seth hears a high pitched whimper come from him, and feels another well placed punch.

It's like his teeth are going to get knocked loose, like Brock's knuckles are going to puncture a hole in his mouth. The insides of his cheek catch on his teeth and split open, more pinpointed burning to get lost among the throbbing pain running through his body, more blood to stain the mattress.

Brock's behemoth cock is too much for Seth, ramming against his insides, messing up everything. His eyes are squeezed closed, tears pouring down, unable to be stopped, his chest heaving in sobs. In a daze, he wonders if Brock could reach his throat from down there, and Brock slaps him again, now on the other side of his face.

"You cryin'?" Brock laughs, and Seth shakes, weeping. "C'mon, you gotta keep tight for me." 

Brock smacks Seth again and again, Seth can feel the skin swelling, feel the resounding sting from Brock's fingers, but all he can think is  _ More, more, more _ . The blood and drool in his mouth is pooling up, and Seth starts weakly spitting it out, letting it dribble down his chin and neck.

Every sensation, good or bad, is redirected to Seth's dick until it's shaking, pulsing excitedly, ready to cum. Brock pushes deep into him, his hips bumping up against Seth's ass, forcing a raspy shout out of him. His orgasm feels like another slap to the face, or a punch to the gut, a force like a truck running through him, pleasure mingling with pain and frying Seth's brain.

Maybe Brock laughs again, Seth can't tell, but the pumping in his ass keeps going until he comes back to reality, his ears clogged and his entire body tingling. Brock grunts and leans forward, pumping wildly, tearing him to shreds. His cock shivers deep inside Seth's body, filling him up with so much wet heat that Seth can't tell it apart from the bile still in his throat.

Brock's breath is heavy, and he pulls out of Seth slowly, holding his legs apart by the knees. "You're a good fuck, Rollins," he gasps, Seth only just barely processing the words. "I'm havin' a good time with ya."

"Nnmgh," Seth tries to say, his throat wet and his face swollen. "Mmugh." He  _ means _ to plead for more, despite his exhaustion, but one of Brock's hits had gotten his jaw, or maybe his eye. His face definitely doesn't feel or work like it's supposed to. 

"That good, huh?" Brock snickers. "If you can still hear me, though, I ain't done witcha yet."

_ Not yet _ , Seth thinks, his last remnants of his consciousness jumping for joy. He feels warm everywhere, bordering on sleepy, but his dick can still feel the pain and still wants more. There's a tinge of darkness in his chest, a small quiet fear of what he's becoming, of how deep into a hole he might end up, but Brock's hand on his thigh redirects all of his attention.

"You gotta get everything out b'fore I fuck you again," he says, slapping the sensitive skin carelessly, making Seth quickly attempt to jerk his legs together. "I ain't gonna fuck my own sloppy seconds."

"Nnuh, I..." Seth slowly starts, feeling the entirety of his tongue in his mouth, swollen and foreign. "Got'uh clean."

Brock shakes his head, a gruesome smile on his face, pressing down on Seth's lower abs, the heel of his palm digging deep into where his cock had just torn up seconds ago. "I know an easier way," he says, not looking at Seth, and with his other hand, he punches straight down, until Seth is  _ certain _ that he hit his spine.

The blow isn't as sharp as the first blow to his stomach, just another punch in the night, but the effects are immediate. Seth nearly throws up again, rolling onto his stomach, knees to his chest, curled up and weeping openly, coughing to get the blood and spit out of his throat, mortified by the wet sounds of Brock's cum falling out of his ass. He can't take full breaths, his abdomen protesting every movement, cramping up as some desperate form of protection. 

"Got it all?" Brock's voice is distant, rough hands coming down on Seth's arm, pulling him back onto his back.

Without thinking, Seth recoils from Brock, his legs pulling back to kick at him deliriously, his body instinctively begging for relief from the torment. His foot plants square in the center of Brock's broad chest and pushes him away, sending another jolt through Seth's stomach. 

Too late, Seth realises that he's broken Brock's rule. A hard fist comes down in the center of his face, sending his head spinning. The sudden pressure feels like he's been hit with a wrench, the pain almost too much to process. With a thrill, Seth dazedly notices that Brock's hands have blood on them when they grab his neck and pin him down.

"What did I  _ fucking _ tell you?" Brock shouts, leaning his weight onto Seth's body, threatening to crush his throat.

Seth desperately wants to apologize, wants to be in Brock's good graces again, but with his gargantuan hand as a vice, he can barely suck in enough air to gasp out a word. As if it emerges from a fog, he remembers the nonverbal cue Brock had given him, but doesn't want to use it, doesn't want to stop. Trembling, he brings a hand to Brock's arm, carefully scratching, neither wanting nor able to put in enough strength.

Brock scoffs, grabbing his bad arm, and twists it above his head, uncaring about Seth's wants. The motion feels like a serrated blade in Seth's shoulder, like a rubber band in him had snapped, and the agonized scream Seth hears barely even sounds like something he can cause.

Brock's red face lights up immediately, eyes bright with something terrifying, and Seth begins sobbing wildly, his free hand desperately clawing at Brock's hand, still on his neck.

" _ Stop _ !" Seth screams, thrashing under Brock's body. "Please, God, STOP! It hurts!"

Laughter is Brock's response. "What, you got a bad shoulder?" he asks, letting go of Seth's neck, his entire body shaking with laughter. 

His newly freed hand comes down hard on Seth's shoulder, and Seth screams again, feeling the ice cold pain shoot all the way down his spine. "Stop strugglin'," Brock says, testing the joint, twisting and pulling Seth's arm every which way. 

Seth can't stop himself from crying, blood still in his mouth, the pain in his arm unbelievable. His mind can't process anything fully, his body still feels fuzzy and warm, but the pain is boiling hot, bitterly cold. Everything he does feels like something someone else made him do, but also it seems to come from so deep within, he's shocked by the fervor behind them.

"Please, no, STOP! Brock, please, please," he hiccups, unable to even open his eyes, his teeth so tight together he thinks he feels a crack. "Please, stop,  _ please _ !"

"No," Brock laughs.

He punches Seth's shoulder again, his knuckles bouncing off Seth's collarbone. Seth can't see, can't think, the pain destroyed everything. He can't even scream, a weak cough coming out when he tries to beg for help.

"Look, you're complaining so much," Brock says, letting go of Seth's arm, finally, put moving his hand back to Seth's neck, a warning. "But you're fuckin' hard again already." 

Seth tries to blink away the tears, he doesn't know if Brock's lying or not, he doesn't know if he's allowed to speak or not. His body's filled with intense sensations, purely physical, everything feels wet and hot.

Brock's next punch to Seth's shoulder is more experimental than powerful, but Brock could kill a man with a thought, so even his lighter tap feels like brass knuckles shattering Seth's bones. There's another scream, shorter, wordless, but the hand on Seth's neck reacts angrily, tightening.

"Too goddamn noisy," Brock snarls, finally resting the entirety of his bodyweight on Seth's neck. His enormous hand almost wraps entirely around, cutting off air and blood, a noose. "Screamin' bloody murder." Seth's hands fly up again, holding onto Brock's wrist, tight, but unwilling to bring himself to give the sign. He tries to gasp, but there's nothing, it almost seems like he's been placed in a vacuum, his entire body caving into itself.

Seth's face starts to get warm, his heartbeat right under his skin, his ears feel like they're clogging up, and his chest gets tight, unsure. There's a euphoria there, whatever had covered his brain with a heavy carpeting is happy about this, about how his head seemed to become disconnected. He doesn't  _ want _ to fight, can't remember anything like this, can't remember  _ anything _ , his brain's getting foggy again, he stops trying to heave in air. Everything goes from hot, unbearably, uncomfortably hot, to something colder, his eyes flutter shut, Brock's laughter seems to be so far away, and then he can breath again.

Brock hasn't let go of Seth's neck, just released the pressure. The effort of heaving in air into his lungs almost makes Seth throw up, and his body shivers, his blood finally circulating again.

"That's better," Brock growls, giving his cock a quick pump, watching Seth sob pitifully. "I'm gonna fuck you jus' like this."

Compared to earlier, it's easier when Brock pushed his way in this time, the leftover cum and probable blood giving him a slicker entrance. He presses all the way in one go, ignoring Seth's moans of pain (or pleasure, Seth doesn't know if he could be trusted to separate the two at all anymore) and only stopping when his hips are up against Seth's ass.

Seth's entire body pulses, his skin seems too fragile, his body seems so flimsy. He wondered if he presses down on his stomach hard enough, will he feel Brock? His body is barely more than a rag doll, a plaything Brock is having fun pulling apart, his face feels disfigured, his insides mangled. He's filled up with the freak of nature, the Beast Incarnate, Brock Lesnar, it's as if there isn't a single spot of him that belongs to anyone else, much less himself. Everything hurts, he can't keep his body from shaking, but he keeps chanting in his mind,  _ more, more, more _ . He's warm, he's comfortable, the only things left are him, Brock, and the razor sharp spikes of pain that seem to go straight to his cock.

Brock fucks him as he lays weakly, breathing heavily and taking up the entirety of Seth's vision. "Your face is all fucked up," he grunts, giving Seth's swollen cheek a comparatively light tap. "But you ain't done yet, are ya?"

"Gweeh," is what Seth replies, trying to give Brock the go ahead to ruin him more, but unable to properly move his tongue and teeth into the right spots.

The hand from Seth's face goes down to his chest, laying flat, slowly exploring the area around his ribcage.The heat and weight feels calming, but Seth's muscles tense up under his touch regardless, cautious. Brock shakes his head, the smile on his face predatory, his fingers starting to dig into the soft tissue on Seth's side.

Brock's punch to his liver is sudden, it knocks all the wind out of Seth, sending his already overworked heart into o verdrive. It feels like a brick going straight through him, puncturing his lungs, turning his joints into jelly, his entire abdomen crunching up until he's completely useless. Seth has never felt something so directly painful, like thick needles have replaced his ribs and are injecting him with acid. He wants to scream but all that comes up is more spit and blood, a pitiful groan.

There's another punch to his abs, further away from his ribs, but it isn't any better. Seth feels like he had gotten a shotgun blast to his stomach, and on the third blow, he's finally able to scream.

The sound of his agony seems to invigorate Brock, who pounds into him harder, barking out a laugh as Seth's weak hands tries to protect his life. This time, he grabs a nipple, twisting and pulling as if he wants to rip it off entirely. Seth screams again, sobbing loudly, protesting as much as his bruised body will let him.

Brock withdraws his weapons to pull Seth closer into him, until Seth's ankles are limply dangling off of his shoulders, his knees knocking together under Brock's chin. "Lil' more," Brock huffs, or so Seth thinks. 

Brock speeds up, leaning into Seth, folding him in half, his breath hot against Seth's skin. Seth can feel how thick he's gotten, the scorching motion of Brock fucking him the only constant thing his body can notice anymore. Brock bucks wildly, deep into Seth, impossibly immense, and with another animalistic grunt, Seth can feel his ravaged guts be filled with the same familiar heat.

Seth doesn't know if he had an orgasm or not, can't tell through the mist his body's floating in. He can barely remember what had happened earlier, thinks he remembers Brock choking him, but can't be sure. His throat aches, his head hurts, his entire body feels like he'd been used for target practice. He'd been conquered by Brock, his body destroyed, made less than human. All he wants to do is float away and sleep, somehow complete with Brock on top of him and filling him up entirely. 

Brock pulls out of him carefully, breathing heavily, his face different, somehow. Seth can't tell, just using his eyes seemed to be too monumental a task.

Huge arms pick him up carefully, the motion making Seth's head spin, in every sense. He tucks his head against Brock's vast shoulder, unsure, confused, unaware if there will be a third round or not. Lights turn on around him, way too bright, blinding him through his closed eyelids, and Seth whimpers, feebly complaining. He wants to be brought back to the bed, if Brock is to do anything else to him, he wants to be still, his body hates the jostling around enough as it is.

It's only when he feels himself surrounded by warm water that Seth realizes he's in the bathroom, that Brock's giving him a bath. The jolt of understanding seems to knock him out of subspace, just barely. Seth has  _ never _ been this deep in, hasn't even realized it. He tries to focus his eyes on Brock's face, tries to understand what's going on. Hunter never gave him aftercare, never stayed around long enough. Dean didn't know how to, Marek and Roman would give him blankets occasionally, but Seth never honestly needed any, never was left deep enough in subspace to be taken care of. He'd given up on it, on getting any sort of kindness after his selfish demands for inhumane cruelty. 

Brock's hands are still rough, calloused, but they're somehow softer than anything Seth's felt before.

Warmth washes away the uncomfortable tackiness on his body, cotton patches up the gaping wounds in his skull, Brock even makes him stick out his tongue to make sure his bite wounds had closed. It's still too bright for Seth to open his eyes, so he keeps them closed, not that he wants to open them, anyway. He stays quiet, pliant, allowing Brock to wash and mend him, feeling that comfortable, newly familiar warmth of safety envelope him.

When he's wrapped in a dry towel, Seth finally tries to function on his own, carefully opening his eyes, holding out a hand so that he could try to stand on his own. Unsurprisingly, his knees buckle, and Brock catches him.

"That ain't gonna work," Brock says, his voice light, totally unlike the brutish shouts from before. "Lemme carry you back, Rollins."

Seth shakes his head slowly, grinding his teeth against the nauseating feeling of the world spinning around him.

Brock snorts, and picks him up regardless.

In bed, Brock props his bad shoulder up with a pillow, allowing Seth to relax while he goes back into the bathroom to presumably clean up. Seth keeps his eyes closed, completely spent, listening to the muffled sounds of Brock washing his hands and coming back into the bedroom.

"Next time," he murmurs, sitting carefully on the bed next to Seth. "You'll have to come to my place. I got a lot more tools and fun stuff there."

_ Next time _ , Seth thinks. Oh, how he loves right now, but the promise of  _ next time _ is almost too much. He wants to cry, to hold out a hand and have Brock hold it back, to fall asleep like this and wake up the same way, warm, safe, comfortable. He knows Hunter will be waiting for him in the morning, and he knows he left his cell phone in his hotel room, but nothing seems to be able to spoil his good mood. 

Seth keeps his eyes closed and smiles, hoping Brock will understand his sentiments. Brock chuckles, and Seth lets himself fall asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> this was easily the most self-serving thing i've ever written. sorry i made hunter mean.


End file.
